


A Friend Like Me

by ProcrastinatingSab



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Nausea, Panic Attacks, References to Depression, and mainly malcolm being so depressed poor boy :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/pseuds/ProcrastinatingSab
Summary: Four years after Martin is arrested, Malcolm is sent to a boarding school. He is hating it and feels horrible until he unexpectantly makes a friend.A story about how Malcolm and Vijay became friends.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	A Friend Like Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wewriteletters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wewriteletters/gifts).



> This turned out sadder than I intended it to be, and I blame social isolation. 
> 
> In case you are wondering, Malcolm was reading an excerpt from Charles Dicken's The Great Tasmanias Cargo. 
> 
> Enjoy xD

**A Friend Like Me**

_"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather, it is one of those things which give value to survival." ― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves_

_"Friendship ... is born at the moment when one man says to another, "What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . ." -C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves_

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

He always walked with his head bowed, hugging his books, not daring to make eye contact and trying so hard to blend into the background, be that fly on the wall, avoid all prying eyes. Back home, he stood out among his classmates. He was the freak, the monster, the weirdo. The boy who was in the news. The rich kid whose dad was a killer. Name-calling, insults upon insults, and jokes and pranks and jabs _and punches, and kicks_ and ... it was too much.

So, he had to leave.

His mother said it was the best thing for him right now.

But he felt alone, oddly out of place, dressed in a royal blue suit that made him feel ten years older. It looked funny at first, but then the look grew on him. Somehow it made him feel safe. Protected. Still oddly out of place, but safe.

His classmates here were indifferent. Some of them knew who he was. Some of them just didn’t care. Mainly, he was ignored, and he was thankful for it, compared to the alternatives.

There was no more dodging punches. No more dancing around the truth about the collection of bruises coloring his skin. He was still bullied here though, but differently. They would whisper behind his back and stare at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Once or twice, he found some notes chucked under his room door.

But he could live with that.

It was okay being here, really.

His mother said it was the best thing for him right now.

He stopped talking to people a long time ago, quit trying to make friends. No one cared. What was the point? So, he buried his nose in a book at lunchtime, buried it in a book at recess, and buried it in a book whenever he wanted to escape. He liked it this way. This was how he kept his heart safe now. He couldn't take the pain of rejection anymore. And in truth, he really liked reading those books. Reading was not only a social escape mechanism for him but rather, an escape from reality altogether. It was his chance to forget who he was, chuck all his pain in a chest, lock it up and bury it in the deepest parts of his subconscious.

Books did that. Because really, who cares about Martin Whitly and what he did _._

_“I had got back again to that rich and beautiful port where I had looked after Mercantile Jack, and I was walking up a hill there, on a wild March morning.”_

Who cares about this girl who whispered to her friends, “I wonder if he’s a psycho like his father?”

_“My conversation with my official friend Pangloss, by whom I was accidentally accompanied, took this direction as we took the uphill direction.”_

It doesn’t matter what they whisper about him.

_“because the object of my uncommercial journey was to see some discharged soldiers who had recently come home from India.”_

It doesn’t bother him how they move away when he sits in class like he’s the plague.

 _“There were men of who had been in many of the great battles of the great_ _Indian campaign, among them;”_

It was for the best that no one wanted their kid to share their room with the son of a psychopath and so he has one all to himself.

_“and I was curious to note what our discharged soldiers looked like, when they were done with.”_

He's fine, really.

Tears…

Tears…?

_Tears ???_

No, he was fine. He liked it here.

His mother said it was the best thing for him right now.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

He would stay in bed for hours, listening to the sound of silence. Thinking. He missed Ainsley a lot. His little sister was his only friend, and they have been through so much together. He hated leaving her. He missed Gil and Jackie too, and he wished he could smell Jackie’s homemade chicken casserole again. It warmed him inside. He missed his mother too, although he was angry with her. He was angry with her because she put him here, and he was missing them, and they were there, and he was stuck here and he’s alone, _so alone._

Tears…

Again?

Why do they never stop coming?

He was tough, and friendships are weaknesses anyway. This wasn’t a social gathering. He was here to learn. At least no one punched him yet. At least no one hurt him yet…

Then why was he so affected? Why did he feel like an anvil is weighing on his heart every time he breathed? Why did his eyes sting every time he heard pity or concern in his teachers’ voices? Why did he care what anyone thought of him? 

No answer. 

He’s here to learn, no matter what happens

His mother said it was the best thing for him right now.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

He couldn’t sleep the night before, and he was so nauseous he wondered how he kept his head. His anxiety was skyrocketing, and after a few fitful minutes of sleep, he woke up with a heartburn so strong it was a miracle he was able to button up his pants.

It was time for the most dreaded biology class. A class he wanted to avoid at all costs.

His steps were heavy, and every time his feet touched the ground, he could feel his heart sinking further and further into the abyss of despair. He approached the classroom like a man awaiting his execution. This wasn’t dread, it was torture.

He was in a stupor by the time the class started. Waves of nausea kept crushing at him every few minutes making everything more horrible than they already were. It wasn’t until the teacher so callously put a tray in front of him with a frog and a scalpel that he really lost it.

His breathing grew frantic. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself down. It didn’t work. Nothing was helping. This happened before, back in public school, and he knew, _he just KNEW_ it will happen again.

His teacher noticed how he was acting and approached him, “Malcolm? Is everything alright?"

_“Look at Whitly. Ha ha ha, he's afraid of dissecting a rat."_

“Malcolm?”

_“The son of a serial killer is scared of a knife. How ironic”_

_"Considering he **ratted** out his dad."_

Laughter…

Laughter...

_“Yo, you freak, monster boy, what’s the matter? you only kill people like your wacky old man.”_

_“Creep…”_

Breathe…breathe. Is this happening now?

Try as he might, he couldn’t drown the cacophony of the mocks and sneers, didn’t know what was real and what was a memory. He put up his hands and covered his ears trying to drown it all. But nothing worked. Nothing _ever_ worked.

“Malcolm Dear, are you okay?”

And then he heard screaming. Loud piercing screaming. Make it stop why won’t it just STOP.

But it was his own voice, he realized. His own screams.

He got up. Took his bag and books and ran out of class.

Just like that.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

He ran back to his room right after and locked himself in. In fact, he locked himself in his room for two days after it happened. He was so ashamed and embarrassed that he couldn’t think it was ever possible for him to leave his room again. He had made a spectacle of himself in the worst way possible. A 14-year-old screaming like a frightened preschooler and running out of class. As if he wasn’t weird enough. As if he needed more reasons to be mocked and shunned. As if he wasn't already looked upon as a crazy person.

Well, now at least they have proof.

He locked himself in his room.

And then he cried.

And cried.

And cried.

He remembered the first day he arrived here. He had promised himself that he would not cry anymore, that he would leave his past behind. He doesn’t remember how many times he already broke this promise. Between heart-wrenching sobs, he realized that as long as his name was Malcolm Whitly, he could never truly escape. One day he would legally change that name. One day he would run away from all this pain and misery. But for now, he had to endure it. It was as his mother always said. Life is a tragedy to be endured.

He would endure and resume his classes again.

His mother said it was the best thing for him right now

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

It was three days after the fiasco. He wended his way through the hallways in silence, went to the library, and started reading again.

 _“In this agreeable frame of mind, I entered the workhouse of Liverpool.--For, the_ _cultivation of laurels in a sandy soil, had brought the soldiers in question to that abode of Glory.”_

"Hey there, Whitly... "

He glanced up from his book and looked at the boy standing in front of him, waving a hand and smiling. He pressed his lips. He knew him from biology class. Vijay Chandasara.

Malcolm felt the blood rush to his face in embarrassment, and to hide his flush, he cleared his throat to buy himself time.

"Hi," he said back, but his voice was still so small and ashamed.

“Mind if I sit here with you?”

“Mm..” he stared at Vijay while a ton of unchecked feelings that were so carefully buried started resurfacing. _Hope. Fear. Pain. Loneliness. Longing for companionship and acceptance_. He quickly buried them all back and tried to hide behind a feigned wall of indifference. “yah sure...” he shrugged.

“Great!” the boy smiled, “I am Vijay, by the way."

“Malcolm.”

They sat in silence, each engrossed in his book. It felt good. Sitting in the vicinity of someone who wasn’t devouring him with silent judging eyes, studying him like a lab specimen. A sense of warmth dared to creep, ever so slightly, in his chest. He dismissed it again and buried it with a speed that only came with constant practice. 

This meant nothing. He was not allowed to be happy. This was a trick.

He could tell that the boy sitting on the opposite side of the table didn’t even care about reading, and yet when he got up to leave, he asked him “same time tomorrow?” 

He was taken so much by surprise that this time he smiled and nodded.

Malcolm could not return back to his book after.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Vijay sat with him the next day.

And the next one.

And the next one.

Every time he came and sat there opposite him, he opened up a book, and they both sat in silence. In classes, he picked the seat next to him. At lunch, he joined him at the corner table; The table no one ever sat at.

He wondered what it all meant. Hope kept trying to resurface. Maybe that boy liked him. Perhaps he wanted to be his friend. He scoffed. It's a trick, it's a joke. No one would ever want to be his friend. His mind was desperate for answers, begging him to ask questions. But he remained quiet and continued to enjoy the much welcome and appreciated company.

After all, what if he said the wrong thing, and the boy left for good?

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Vijay closed his book with a thud.

“Common man, don’t you ever get bored of reading? Let’s go do something fun for a change.”

He frowned and looked up, puzzlement coloring his every expression, “umm this… isn’t ... fun?”

"No bro, it's torture. I hate books, and I don't think I can pretend to enjoy that stupid book about the French revolution any longer. Let's do something fun, do you play any sports?"

“Um... I used to play squash… back home.”

“Well, well, I happen to be a pro. I am sure I can whoop your ass. Come, there is a court here in the gym. Let's go!”

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Vijay was very talented and well-trained. In addition to his much taller form and longer legs, Malcolm did not stand a chance. His skills were rusty. He had stopped his squash training four years ago. His life _stopped four years ago_...

Malcolm lost miserably. But despite being very competitive, he did not even feel the sting of the defeat. There was a weird sense of euphoria overwhelming him.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling so light. All those anchors usually weighing him down were gone, all those problems he carried on his shoulder were nonexistent. There were only him, Vijay and the squash court. He solely focused on the racket in his hand, and the ball hitting the target and bouncing back. It was the best night he could remember in what felt like forever.

They changed, and as they were about to leave, Vijay, like usual, promised to see him tomorrow and turned to leave.

Malcolm finally found his voice and he called him back. He then asked Vijay the question that was eating at him since that very first day that tall, dark, and handsome boy sat across him and pretended to read a book.

"Why? Why do you want to sit with me?" Is what he said.

 _Why would you want to be talking to me? I am a monster. I am a freak. I am the son of a notorious serial killer. You should run away. You should hit me, mock me, make fun of me. Why? Why are you still here?_ Is what he wanted to say but couldn’t.

Vijay shrugged and smiled incredulously, "I want us to be friends. Not obvious? I thought I didn't need to explain to you; after all, you are the nerd between us!"

“B..but you know who I am, who my f..father is”

"Yeah, your old man's a jerk. So, what. Mine too, by the way. Got caught dealing drugs,” Vijay lowered his head and fiddled with his racket nervously. “Figured us damaged kids can, you know, stick up together.”

His comment was dry and sarcastic. Vijay tried to hide the bitterness he felt when he talked about his father, and to the untrained ears, he would have succeeded. But Malcolm has been in this pretend game far longer, and he caught the slight tremor in the voice, the subtle sadness in the eyes, the ever so slight clenching of the jaws. Vijay was suffering just like he was, Vijay was alone just like he was, and he craved his company just like he did.

Malcolm put a hand on Vijay's shoulders, waited till he met his eyes and smiled. It was a real genuine smile. A smile so full, he forgot he was able to stretch his face muscles that way up.

“Friends,” he said.

“Ya, baby!” Vijay beamed and chanted excitedly.

"I was thinking we call ourselves the Bad Boys,” he moved his hands in a theatrical gesture, and his eyes were twinkling with relief so prominent that Malcolm wondered why he ever doubted this. 

Malcolm too couldn’t stop smiling, “that name needs some work, let’s think of something else!”

“The OUUTCASTS...”

“no that’s terrible,” he chuckled.

“Bad seeds?”

“Maybe! I like this one,” he mused.

They reached their dorm building and the two boys broke apart, each going to his room with a smile and a light heart.

“Bye Whitly,”

“Malcolm ...”

“Oh, okay. Bye, Malcolm."

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He liked the sound of silence. He missed Ainsley a lot. He missed Gil and Jackie. He missed his mother too. He was aching to see them again and was counting the days.

But now he had a friend. Vijay was his friend, and he made his life here a lot bearable. He hasn’t cried in weeks now.

His ~~mother~~ _mom_ said it was the best thing for him right now.

He smiled.

_She was right._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Note: Since he’s a 14 year old, the dialogue is cheesy on purpose and he’s having thoughts all over the place also on purpose. :3


End file.
